So far the Sinkhole had been the usual guy venue: alcohol, cigarettes and 3-D TV sports, plus a few rough-looking women lined up at the bar.
Now I was mesmerized by the famous personas heading toward the Invisible Man's table, two CinSims familiar from my pre-teen reading and cable TV-watching days.
Basil/Sherlock was looking as bored and unhappy as Mr. Spock at a picnic, but Ricardo/stock Latin lover character was eyeing the crowd. His eyeing got more personal the nearer he approached.
"Why did you want to meet me here anyway?" I asked the Invisible Man as our new companions joined the table.
He leaned nearer to whisper even more softly...and put a leather glove on my knee. "It's the only place in Vegas that isn't monitored by the powers that be or the police. That's why it moves around. It's the only place CinSims dare assemble, and are tolerated as free agents."
"Are you free agents?" I asked, glancing at all of my Three CinSim Stooges: Sexy, Asexual, and Horny. Snow White never had it so good.
"Shhh!" The Invisible Man eyed the unsavory ranks of supernaturals and debased humans surrounding us. "It's to everybody's advantage to keep a safe zone private. That doesn't mean that very bad things don't happen in the Sinkhole. They simply are not official business in the rest of Vegas."
"What entertainment venues host our new friends here?"
"Entertainment," Holmes spat. "Certainly not."
"These two are...privately owned. Like Hector Nightwine's man, Godfrey."
"Owned, not leased?"
The fedora nodded.
"How does this happen?"
"The...purveyors announce auctions. All interested parties are free to bid."
"This smacks of outright slavery." Which was exactly what I'd suggested to Snow, and which he'd denied vehemently.
"Viva Miss Delilah," Montalban hailed my indignation in his silken tequila voice. "It is even worse than the studio contracts I signed when I first came to Hollywood from Mexico. Those old time moguls were bastards, but at least they loved making movies. Our current masters only love making money."
"CinSims have been legally declared intellectual property," the Invisible Man explained. "Our base material is anonymous and the actors who played us are, in most cases, dead-"
"And if some are not?" I asked. "After all, people are extending their life spans in some form or other, or being revivified all the time, if they're rich enough."
"The studios, or whatever legal entity has succeeded them, get a royalty, as do the actors or their estates. But since a CinSim is a true amalgam, the courts have ruled, so far, that we are a new creative entity and belong to those who cobbled us together from the dead and the flickers of vintage film strips,"
"You sound almost proud of your unique status," I told the Invisible Man.
"Why not? I was and am still typecast as a mad scientist. I salute what science today has done to blur the lines between art and technology, and even life and death, to preserve what were mere half lives as whole lives."
Montalban was meanwhile eyeing my butch leather outfit. "This is most unfeminine," he said, caressing the next words. "No scarlet silks, no ruffles, no jewels." His autocratic tone softened. "But I like it. I like it very much."
"Who is your... master?" I asked.
"Mistress," he corrected smoothly. "I was won by a woman, of course."
Whoa. My inner girlfriend, Irma, spoke up for the first time on this expedition. "Does she rent him out, do you think? I'd share with you, even though you won't with me."
I rolled my eyes at no one in particular. Dealing with two "Rics" was beyond my modest experience of a social life. Still, I could see that my Ric, less suave and more direct, shared that certain sexy something with the young Ricardo Montalban.
"What about Sherlock?" I asked Claude, since the great detective was keeping aloof from the conversation.
"He won't say who commands his services," Claude admitted, leaning close to whisper. At least this time he had something interesting to say as well as another squeeze of my knee to execute. "But don't let his attitude fool you. He's here to learn the ways of the Sinkhole and to use them in the future."
"When the CinSims rebel," I guessed.
"Shhh! We trust no one here. I wanted to tell you in this safe zone that your escape from Cesar Cicereau's hit squad has infuriated him and his lieutenants and soldiers. Rumors abound that his organization "bungled' an operation. That's the first kiss of death in mob circles. We CinSims have our ways of learning things. That's why I called you here."
"You don't have information for me on who the Sunset Park male victim is?"
"No. I know you're after that secret even though identifying the female victim nearly got you torn apart by werewolves. Trouble is, word of that showdown in the mountains is arming the opposition too. Cicereau's people, and werewolves, have IDed your boyfriend, Ric. They're not happy with him gunning down their muscle with silver bullets. He should be wary too. Those of us CinSims who've preserved a sense of self and free will can help you, but we are sadly few."
He glanced at our table partners. "And you can see we are limited by the roles in which we were preserved."
Which meant that we had young skirt-chasing Montalban to deal with, not the seasoned actor who projected The Wrath of Khan on movie screens more than thirty years later. It also meant that Sherlock Holmes was present in the brisk, ultra-effective form of Basil Rathbone's 1940s portrayal, not the mercurial eccentric that Jeremy Brett portrayed to great acclaim forty years later.
I assumed that Rathbone's dazzling real life and onscreen fencing skills were still available in this Holmes enactment. The literary Holmes had practiced baritsu, a fictional Asian martial art Conan Doyle invented decades before such skills showed up routinely in twentieth century action novels and films. Too bad Sean Connery's James Bond wasn't available, but the youthful Montalban had wielded a mean sword in pirate movies.
A thought occurred to me. "Are any of the CinSims in color?"
Claude drew back in melodramatic shock.
"No! It's the silver nitrate in the old films that both destroyed the strips and now preserves our performances. Look at mine. I had to convey my character and emotions with voice only. Not since the Silents had an actor met a more demanding challenge, if I say so myself. More rumors say that a color process is under development, but, frankly, all that gaudy hokum diminishes and distracts from the power and polish of the classic black-and-white format."
He sounded as snobbish as Hector Nightwine. In fact, I wondered if Hector might have leased him, not Snow. Being invisible, he could go anywhere. Snow had once appeared to recognize him, but that may not mean he leased him. My rotund boss had an appetite for the bizarre. Whatever, I had time to inquire into that later in places less unpleasant than the Sinkhole.
"So why do you want to hire me to find out who died with Cicereau's daughter?"
"Cicereau's a big guy in this town. His CinSims work under the worst conditions in Vegas. We like his fur ruffled and you're pretty good at it so far. Plus, you escaped his forced labor operation.
"Even a magician with supernatural connections hasn't been able to do that. That makes you our hero. We can watch your back if you'll go for Cicereau's front. Another thing-"
Claude hunched closer. I could see my white-blond self reflected in his dark sunglasses like I saw myself in Snow's shades. The similarity was unpleasant.
His gauze lips barely moved as he whispered. "The vampire CinSims are all disappearing. All over town. Even at the supernatural chicken ranches out in the boonies."
"There are vampire brothels?"
"Of course. Any flavor or twist of supernatural you want, male or female or question mark. They say the chupacabra three-way is out of this world."
Chupacabra! Irma made herself known. Ric's seen one in the Mexican desert; you've seen the tracks of one in a Kansas cornfield. What's a monster animal doing in Nevada houses of ill repute?"
Good question. The chupacabra was known as a goat-sucker, a blood-sucking creature that left its prey a desiccated sack of bones. How this could be put to erotic use without resulting in death was beyond me and I was thankful for that.
I thought of Count Dracula, the motion picture CinSim. Was Howard Hughes snapping up all the Vegas vampire CinSims for some reason? Could be. He shared Hector Nightwine's love of vintage films and had a billionaire's need for one thing more. Control. He'd been a "force" in Vegas once, he wanted back in, and vampires had been out of power in Vegas since they'd lost out when the city was being founded.
Hughes had hired me to discover the identity of young Miss Cicereau's boyfriend, another piece in the power game. Of course, Nightwine was also my client. If we knew the whole story, we'd have Cicereau on the ropes. Nightwine could film a slightly fictionalized version of the murders and Cesar would be toppled by the publicity and outed as a known... what was the word for killing a daughter? There were words for killing mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers, but I knew none for offing offspring. The ever-unpopular "child killer" would have to do it.
Snow, another power player, also wanted to know who had died with Cicereau's daughter and, like Hughes and Hector, had "hired" me to find the answer. Now here I had a fourth set of clients-rogue CinSim conspirators.
"Chickie-baby," a loathsome, lusting, derisive male voice growled into the haze of my macabre reverie.
The worst part was that I recognized it, even if the speaker didn't recognize me.
"Why's a hot babe like you sitting with these lame CinSymbiants, huh?"
The man had taken my tablemates for wandering tourists dressing up as their favorite hotel CinSims. That was a mistake.
He'd also grabbed the nape of my black leather vest.
That was an even bigger mistake.
Before I could even begin to tell Detective Half-balled Haskell to take his hands off me, Quicksilver, who'd been as still as a statue following our conversation, sped like a speeding bullet for his throat.
Haskell went down on the floor, with Quick growling and worrying at his most vulnerable areas-throat, gut and crotch.
"Back! Off!" I ordered, careful not to use the dog's name.
Haskell had glimpsed Quicksilver once, but had never heard his name. At the time, Haskell's attention was fixed on me, so I doubt he had even registered the wolfish breeds Quicksilver combined.
As far as I knew, since our round at the Enchanted Cottage Haskell now had only one ball left and was three times meaner than before. I didn't want Quicksilver snacking at his crotch because I was sure that no balls would make Haskell almost supernaturally dangerous. The last Sinkhole attack on him might have started something like that already. In the post-Millennium Revelation world, it was vital to watch out who, or what, you were bit by and how often.
Ric had gone incognito into the Sinkhole; someone, or something, had inflicted nasty extra damage on Haskell's body parts after Ric left him unconscious.
I had a few friends capable of the same vengeful instincts as Ric on my behalf. Quicksilver's gusto for the crotch area made me wonder what he did on his solo midnight runs. Nightwine could have sent one ugly CinSim of a customer after Haskell once he'd viewed the security tape of the cop mauling me in his very own treasured Enchanted Cottage.
At that moment, the silver familiar moved from my neck to make a chain-wrapped fist of my right hand, reminding me that maybe Snow could spy on me through the artifact. Even he might not like the corrupt fuzz hitting on his newly-wired toy.
All speculation was moot now. Haskell didn't know that blond Sinkhole Biker Girl was Delilah Street.
Quick had obeyed my command, a growl warning his prey that this was just a temporary truce. I took a deep breath...
... and expelled it as hot-tempered Ricardo Montalban hauled Haskell up from the floor.
"Puerco! Hijo de puta! You dare accost a woman sitting at my table?"
And Montalban essayed a fist to the chops that laid Haskell back down again.
"I'm a representative of the law," Haskell screamed at the lowlifes gathering around.
Sherlock Holmes bent down to blow pipe smoke into Haskell's face. "If this is a representative of the law, I'm the Dalai Lama."
Then Holmes hauled him upright without losing a breath to puff out smoke.
"How shall we expel this noxious snake? Is there a vampire in the house? Bites and blood-sucking are extremely effective ways of dealing with snake venom. I confess that I do not believe in vampires, but one would certainly be useful in this instance."
The Invisible Man had doffed trench coat, hat, sunglasses and gauze and was now invisibly pummeling Haskell about the head and chest like a frantic windstorm.
"Take these thugs into citizens' arrest!" Haskell shouted, dodging unseen blows.
The problem was one of the few human bodies in the place was looking picked upon. Visiting tourists, CinSymbiants and human riffraff rose in a wave from the wide-screen sports TVs at the bar and the small cocktail tables anchored by some CinSims of their choice.
"That's okay, officer! I'll help," a beefy man in Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt called, wading into the battle. "Hang in there," he added, an unfortunate choice of expression for Half-balled Haskell.
When he accidentally wopped the Invisible Man in the back with a fanny pack, I was forced to push him aside.
"Bitch!" a woman with pink hair and a nose ring screamed, heading for me.
I was more than ready, but she was plucked away before she could hit me with her faux-Prada bag.
A half-dozen half-were bikers waded in, their chains chiming. I pulled the nightstick and found it as effective when poking as when striking sideways. My chain-wrapped fist was scuffing lots of biker leather as I dodged return blows, getting into the rhythm of something I'd never participated in before, a brawl. With these allies-and no deadly weapons out as yet-it was kind of invigorating.
Then I felt my arms pinned to my side by someone unseen and unwelcome and really strong behind me. We hadn't figured on vampires joining the fray.
I turned to snarl in that direction...and faced off a tattoo freak with a smear of black beard. He picked me up by the waist, spun me around behind him, and proceeded to stomp Haskell in the nuts. Or where what was left of them would be. Nice.
Quicksilver was nipping neatly at the thick ankles of the tourist couple while Holmes and Montalban were engaging the gathering crowd aching for a fight with quaint but effective fisticuffs. I dodged around my unsavory would-be rescuer to back up Holmes and Montalban, but was again grabbed and pinned, my back to his front. The whole scene was really beginning to look like The Three Stooges Meet the Monster Jamboree.
I couldn't enjoy the comic aspects in the custody of another mauling male. I twisted hard to take another look at my rescuer/meddler. He was a smoke-and-brimstone-streaked guy wearing Eau de NASCAR pit-stop cologne. Not attractive unless vintage auto exhaust turned you on.
I started to order him to back off, when he rubbed the back of one tatted forearm over his sooty brow, eyed me hard, and said "Whew. All this action gives me an adrenaline junkie itch. Let's go somewhere and fuck, babe."
Babe! Really offensive language always brought out my Our Lady of the Lake Convent School warrior maid.
I managed to slew around in the creep's grasp, fighting to pull far enough away to kick him in the nuthouse. Quicksilver was pushing between us, growling and snapping at the same target I coveted.
My attacker had snaked around, clutching me as close as a shield, and was once again behind me, holding me tight. Too close for Quicksilver to hurt him without taking a chunk out of me. I struggled, panting, at hearing my warrior dog whimper in sheer frustration.
"And you thought I couldn't disguise myself in the Sinkhole," the man whispered against my ear as my head thrashed to butt him under the jaw and get myself loose.
I stopped fighting. And was silent, hearing only my ragged breathing. And his. Fury became something quite the opposite, or maybe just in a different mode.
"Hell, Montoya," I whispered just as softly. "Why wouldn't I panic? That thing felt a foot long."
"I thought you were interested."
"So is Quick."
"You don't have a way to tell him to back off before I let you go and expose my crotch to his two-inch fangs?"